


Go Astray With Me

by THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Manipulative Relationship, Manipulative sex, Praise Kink, flashes of cytherea's kinkycruel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25407535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE/pseuds/THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE
Summary: Gideon Nav is gallant, and naive, and so, so eager. The woman calling herself Dulcinea Septimus can scarcely believe what's fallen into her lap.Or: at some point at Canaan House, "Dulcinea" decides to play with Gideon, who just wants to be spoken to kindly.
Relationships: Cytherea the First/Gideon Nav
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106





	Go Astray With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to JPNadia for a line edit on this, and sorting out my messy tenses. Title from Lorde.

This should be obvious. Dulcinea Septimus should be a physical wreck. She should be too delicate for this near-bruising kiss, for the greedy hands roaming across her back. Dulcinea Septimus would not have the strength to hold Gideon Nav close like this, to kiss her fiercely without coughing blood into Gideon’s mouth. She couldn’t stop Gideon in place with her legs wrapped around Gideon’s waist, grinning devilishly.

Dulcinea Septimus is dead, and the woman Gideon Nav is staring at with a seething admixture of awe, lust, and panic feels a deep and abiding sadness for that. She has no idea what Dulcinea was like, but she seemed a sweet girl, for the few seconds between their meeting and the death of Dulcinea’s cavalier. It would have been good for her, before the end, to be stared at like this, to have a lover as sincere and chivalrous and shyly enthusiastic as Gideon.

It started like this:

* * *

A sudden rainstorm swept in from the wine-dark sea, scudding clouds billowing up into swollen thunderheads as they watched. It had been Gideon on the terrace, standing like a silent servant while Dulcinea (she thought of herself as Dulcinea now, as if she’d entombed herself away somewhere, puppeteering her body like a construct) read her paperbacks. Septimus had particular tastes – chivalry and high romance, delicate necromancers and dashing cavaliers, rescues from deep-space prisons, duels for honour and hearts and hands in marriage. All very frothy, but there’s an appeal there, she had to admit.

Fat raindrops began to splatter on Canaan House’s old bones, and Dulcinea gathered her books and parasol while Gideon stared up at the sky like she’d never seen a storm before. She had, in fact; there had been four storms since they all arrived here. Still, this one was particularly impressive. A spray of lightning clawed at the sea away to the west, and the waves reared up like the wrath of an old god, come to reclaim their world from the murderer enthroned above it.

“Gideon,” Dulcinea said, not even needing to bat her eyelashes, “Would you help me, please?”

Gideon reacted like she always did when asked something sweetly, almost tripping over herself to obey. Had she had any soft words, any _requests_ , in her eighteen years in the hole of Drearburh; Dulcinea would wager not. The Reverend Daughter had no idea what she had in Gideon; what she could achieve with a simple _please_.

If Harrowhark Nonagesimus wouldn't take advantage of that, though, then the woman calling herself Dulcinea Septimus would.

Gideon helped her in – practically carried her – and even though this was maybe the fiftieth time Gideon had done so since their arrival, Dulcinea savoured it. Gideon’s muscles were, quite simply, exquisite; there was an incredible strength there, tightly leashed. She handled Dulcinea like a porcelain doll; Dulcinea wondered, idly, if she could convince Gideon to treat her roughly.

Not likely. Not without compromising herself.

The rain made Gideon’s horrible face-paint run, white and black running together in grey streaks. Gideon blinked them away from her eyes as they slowed in Dulcinea’s quarters. The Seventh’s rooms lay higher up in Canaan House, facing the sunset. Bitter irony, that. The gilded decay of Canaan House was on full display; the threadbare silken froth of the curtains, the woodwormed finery of the window frames, moth-eaten tapestries only slightly dulling the gasps.

Of her tyro cavalier there was little sign; she had left an oiled blade on a dresser and a roll of flimsy next to a pen on a desk. The thing that used to be Protesilaus Ebdoma was stalking the basement, silent as death, slinking along almost a full room behind Harrowhark Nonagesimus. The Reverend Daughter was good, but not quite good enough; she needed a cavalier watching her back.

The cavalier who blinked those lambent oilseed eyes at Dulcinea as she raised a hand to smudge the face-paint. She let the romance – _Be My Cavalier IX –_ fall from her fingers. It hit the floor with a _thud._ She’d taken them from Septimus, and they ranged from cloying toothache to really quite good. Most of them seemed to be about sword-marriages, inter-house ones at that. It was a particular fixation on the forbidden; intriguing. What it said about Septimus...

There had been a packet of letters too, handspan-thick, bound with old twine. Dulcinea hadn’t opened them. She’d already killed the girl; leafing through her old life had seemed a step too far. It wasn’t like any of the House heirs here would know her well, after all.

“Oh, that stuff’s running into your eyes,” she said, running a thumb across the red-grey line of Gideon’s eyebrows. She had a good idea what the Ninth made it out of, but she’d been a Necromancer for far too many centuries to be squeamish about rendered fat and pyre-char. “Won’t you let me take it off?”

At that, Gideon seemed unsure, even through the death’s head mask.

“I’d hate for you to have to wash them out, Ninth,” she said, laying it on a little thicker. She’d made a decision, out on the terrace, as Protesilaus tracked Nonagesimus deeper into the laboratories. Time to follow it through. “Let me down, please.”

At that, Gideon moved like a skeleton given sudden command, which Dulcinea supposed was what Nonagesimus had in mind for the vow of silence. Dulcinea would really like to be able to hold a proper conversation with this mute ingenue, but watching Gideon jump to attention when someone says _please_ is almost as satisfying. Dulcinea looped an arm around Gideon’s neck, and was lowered gently to the end of her bed. The springs creaked, gently. They’ve solidified over ten thousand years; the last time she’d brought someone back to it it had made barely a whisper.

That had been another cavalier, so long ago…

Maybe that story would have belonged in one of Septimus’ novels. Then again, they all seemed to have happy endings.

A gentle touch to her arm brought her back to here and now; Gideon’s gaze, only a little red around the edges, was tinged with concern.

“Just an idle thought from an old woman,” Dulcinea said, and Gideon gave a little snort.

She had no idea how true it is.

There were wash-wipes on the bedside table, to clean up exhaled blood. She could control the cancer, most of the time, but it took effort – and it would make her deception obvious to any half-competent necro. She plucked one from the plastic packet, and scooted back down towards Gideon.

She could just about reach Gideon’s face, but she didn’t want to do it that way.

“Move closer, would you, Gideon?”

Gideon shuffled forward, trying to artfully move Dulcinea’s legs out of the way, which was really too chivalrous of her. Dulcinea couldn’t be having any of that, sweet as it was.

She moved her legs, letting Gideon’s knee slip between her own. Pushed herself closer with her hands on the bed, so one calf hooked gently around Gideon’s. Another shuffled move ran her thigh between Gideon’s, the split up her dress letting the silk slide away to reveal bare skin.

She saw Gideon’s throat work.

“Could you lean down for me? I can’t reach otherwise.”

A filthy lie, but Gideon didn’t seem to notice. She leaned over, and Dulcinea took hold of the side of Gideon’s neck, pulling her closer until Gideon had to brace herself with hands on the mattress and a knee between Dulcinea’s thighs on the bedframe. She stayed there, statue-still, somewhere between leaning over Dulcinea and lying atop her.

Most of the way there.

Dulcinea reached up, and dabbed at the face-paint with the wash-wipe. It left greasy smears on the damp fabric, and on Gideon’s skin. When she’d completely saturated the wipe, she threw it into the bin and scrabbled back to get another. Gideon moved with her, seemingly without meaning to; they ended up halfway up the bed, Gideon eclipsing the bulbs and throwing Dulcinea into shadow. The heavy wet fabric of Gideon’s cloak – black, of course, no imagination on the Ninth – settled across Dulcinea’s front, wetting the thin silk even further.

That wouldn’t have been a problem for propriety if Dulcinea had been wearing anything under the dress, but if she was honest with herself, she’d made the decision to seduce Gideon Nav even before Gideon had arrived on the terrace today. She felt the water seep through to her skin, chill and awakening.

It took three full wipes to remove the last of the face paint, and afterwards Gideon blinked owlishly down at her, her face naked and expressive. Her skin was sallow and reddish and, in places, pimpled from the paint. Her flame-red hair was clumped at the hairline with excess bits of paint, and rainwater, and a little sweat. Her lips (Dulcinea had gone especially slow when wiping those off) were pink and full and made for insouciant smirks. Well, that and kissing.

“There,” she said. Isn’t that better?” She laid a hand on Gideon’s cheek, thumb brushing softly over the outer ridge of Gideon’s ocular cavity.

Gideon’s throat worked again, and Dulcinea watched her pupils change size. Then Gideon looked down, apparently only just realising the wet cloak. She pulled back, sweeping it away.

“Oh, you must take that off too,” Dulcinea said, propping herself up on her elbows as Gideon fiddled with it. “You’ll catch your death.”

Gideon managed to get the cloak off without making too much of a mess of the bed, which was to her credit. She moved as if to get up off the bed, and glanced back to Dulcinea.

And froze.

The rainwater had done its work; the already-thin fabric of Dulcinea’s dress had moulded itself to her body, revealing most of everything underneath.

Shorn of facepaint, Gideon Nav’s face was as readable as _Be My Cavalier_ . Her cheeks reddened, her lips twitched in near panic, and her eyes flickered up and down Dulcinea, from where one dress strap had slid to the curve of her shoulder to the shape of her breasts to the divot in the silk across her navel. Then Gideon’s eyes snapped back to Dulcinea’s face, and then determinedly _away_ , as if she were a pickpocket and the glances were Dulcinea’s valuables.

“Gideon,” she said, as Gideon tried to pull away. Gideon stopped, Dulcinea’s hands gentle on her shoulders. She swallowed, and Dulcinea wanted to leave red marks all across the column of that throat. Without the cloak, the shape of Gideon’s muscles was easier to make out, but not as easy as it would be when there was no fabric between them.

Gideon’s jaw worked, as if there were words fighting to break through the vow of silence. Her shoulders tensed, her hands balling into fists on the mattress. The sight and feel of it sent a shiver through Dulcinea, cold excitement rushing down her spine, looping through her stomach, settling between her legs. Gideon Nav couldn’t destroy her, no matter how rough she was, not really, and if Dulcinea had no deception to keep up she’d encourage Gideon to try, to see how hard and how long she could keep it up before exhaustion.

But that wasn’t an option. And, besides, Gideon wasn’t ready for that.

This girl had never had so much as a soft word spoken to her, if Dulcinea was any judge. The way she reacted when Dulcinea said _please_ , the way her hand flexed after a gentle brush with Dulcinea’s fingertips, the way she held her arms perfectly still and careful when Dulcinea “accidentally” fell into them.

Gideon Nav was half hers already; all she needed was a gentle coaxing.

“Gideon,” she said again, looping her arms around Gideon’s neck. “You’re so very gallant.”

Another blush, another swallow.

Oh, that was the other thing she’d need.

Easy enough to give.

“I’ve been so very lonely when you’re away,” she said. “I know you’re not supposed to speak, but, well. Pro doesn’t talk much either, and you two seem to be the only two interested in me.”

True enough, bar a few incidents of the Sixth hovering anxiously nearby when she left her quarters.

“And I much prefer you, if I’m honest,” she continued. “Isn’t that terrible? He’s my cav, but, well. I can talk to you. You listen.”

Gideon’s gaze was locked to hers. She was wavering, Dulcinea could see. Caught between her vow to Nonagesimus and the woman underneath her. Between oaths and loneliness. Between duty and lust.

Perhaps _this_ should be in one of Septimus’ bodice-rippers.

She was being entirely too obvious; the characterisation poor, the overture heavy-handed. She ran a hand down Gideon’s chest.

“I’m going to die,” she said. “I know that. It won’t be that long. And I’ve never… everyone back home treated me like a little porcelain doll.”

Gideon’s lips parted, and she drew in a breath, like she was about to speak. Her mouth worked silently, making the skeletons of words. Dulcinea laid a single finger across her lips.

“I’m glad I met you, Gideon. I’ve been so lonely. And – before I go –” She cut herself off, as if choked by emotion. “Could you kiss me, at least?”

Gideon blinked, her eyes homing in on Dulcinea’s lips. Dulcinea let them part, just a little, a thin whisper of breath rushing out.

“Please, Gideon.”

That did it.

Gideon leaned down, almost too fast; Dulcinea had to move back to prevent a headbutt. Gideon’s lips were chapped, and inexpert, and so very earnest.

The kiss was deep, because Dulcinea deepened it, wrapping her arms back around Gideon’s neck to pull her closer. She opened her mouth, swiping her tongue out to brush against Gideon’s. Gideon kept her weight braced against one arm, even as Dulcinea moved her legs so Gideon settled entirely between them. They kept on, Dulcinea keeping Gideon close, until Gideon had to break for breath.

(Dulcinea could keep going; of course, keep sustaining herself through thanergy, but that tended to make her flare up. Coughing blood into Gideon’s mouth would be so very aesthetically rich, but it’d make Gideon shy away faster than anything else.)

Gideon pulled away, panting like she’d run a mile. Dulcinea stayed close, kissing her face, gentle brushes as Gideon’s chest heaved against hers.

Gideon levered herself up, eyes wide and panicked and lost.

Oh, was this her first kiss?

Dulcinea gazed up at Gideon through long lashes, noonday eyes meeting sunset.

“You’re a natural,” she said, which was laying it on a bit thick. The noise Gideon made was worth it, though. She left one arm around Gideon’s neck, and ran the other down her back. “May I kiss you again, Gideon?”

Gideon nodded, jerkily, and Dulcinea moved in again. Slower this time, gently rolling Gideon’s bottom lip between her teeth, coaxing Gideon’s mouth open with all the languor of the Seventh House. Gideon’s lips tasted of face paint and wash-wipe, but that wasn’t so bad. Gideon relaxed, a little.

The kiss lasted, gentle, coaxing, until Dulcinea pulled away. Gideon stared down, her face open and conflicted. Dulcinea gave her a half-smile, whispering as the open window blew chill air over them.

“That’s what I wanted, Gideon,” she said. “Thank you.”

They stayed there, frozen, for long heartbeats. The sea outside roared, distant, in time with the thump-thump of ventricle and aorta in her ears and underneath Gideon’s skin.

“Unless,” Dulcinea murmured. “Unless you wanted to…”

Gideon drew in a breath. Her ribcage lay flush with Dulcinea’s chest; the intercostals pressed the dress to Dulcinea’s skin.

“… stay the night?” Dulcinea finished.

Here, then, was a choice.

If Gideon left, she was lost to Dulcinea forever; she’d be Nonagesimus’ creature, and she’d have to die. That would be a tragedy, but Dulcinea had known a myriad’s worth of tragedy. If Gideon stayed, though…

“Please, Gideon,” she said, and the scales tipped.

* * *

So here they are:

Gideon Nav and the woman calling herself Dulcinea Septimus, in the red gold of twilight, and it really should be obvious.

Dulcinea’s hands go to Gideon’s shirt buttons, then to the hem, dragging damp fabric up Gideon’s back with far more verve than a dying woman should be able to muster. She gasps as Gideon kisses away from her mouth and down her neck, suddenly hungry for what she’s never tasted. Gideon’s lips find the corner of her jaw, then her pulse, and she moans. Gideon’s rough, inexperienced, but she’s keen to learn; if Dulcinea is to make an investment of her, she can start the lessons now.

“Oh, god,” she says, and Gideon stills. Dulcinea takes an opportunity to gently push Gideon up and get rid of the black shirt. Underneath is a garment so strongly _cavalier_ she can barely stifle a laugh; a no-nonsense polymer swordswoman’s brassiere, designed to keep absolutely everything secure and improve Gideon’s profile with a rapier besides. It’s fastened at the front, and Dulcinea’s fingers make swift, practised work of it.

Gideon’s lips are slightly parted, and she whines as Dulcinea throws the brassiere to the side and runs blunt nails across Gideon’s breasts. She tweaks a nipple, playfully, savouring the little yip that gets her. Then she takes Gideon’s hand in hers.

“That was good,” she says. “Do it again, Gideon.”

Gideon needs no further prompting, and returns to Dulcinea’s neck. Her hand, Dulcinea guides to the dress strap; Gideon braces herself on the elbow of her other arm, fingers splaying out warm and firm across the small of Dulcinea’s back. Dulcinea’s gently lifted off the bed, and Gideon runs the dress down her as far as she can from that position.

Dulcinea giggles, tangling a hand in Gideon’s hair, and pulling her up for another kiss. Her legs are wrapped around Gideon’s waist, ankles locked together; she slings an arm around Gideon’s shoulders and uses that leverage to press herself against Gideon, chest-to-chest, and kisses her open-mouthed. The kiss ends messily, hot and heavy and breathy, and Dulcinea tips Gideon’s head back to run sucking kisses down her neck. Gideon moans, and it’s the most sound Dulcinea has won from her in days.

“Do you like that?” Dulcinea asks, grinding herself against Gideon’s hips, and Gideon gasps. Her skin is hot under Dulcinea’s mouth, more _alive_ than anything she’s encountered in centuries. She scrapes her teeth over Gideon’s jugular vein, just a little, and Gideon shivers. Now, _that’s_ useful information.

She lets Gideon’s hair go, runs her hands down Gideon’s back, across trapezius and scapulars and rhomboids, down each and every vertebra, until her fingers are dancing at Gideon’s hips. Gideon’s trousers are going to be an issue; Gideon apparently realises this, and thinks the same about Dulcinea’s dress. They still, like a lull in conversation. Dulcinea kisses Gideon again, because that’s nice, and Gideon’s getting better at it.

When they break apart, Gideon sits back on her haunches, pupils dilated like she’s drugged; high on the rush of a woman kissing her. Dulcinea lets her arms fall back, wrists crossed artfully above her head. Gideon’s gaze drags up and down Dulcinea, and Dulcinea returns the favour.

She’d been right: Gideon Nav’s muscles are _to die for_ , taut from whatever nutri-paste and gruel they have on the Ninth. Dulcinea could use her abdominals as a teaching diagram, and the divot of her navel forms the head of a trail of fine red hairs that track down and disappear beneath Gideon’s belt (she’d left the rapier by the door, thank God).

Dulcinea meets Gideon’s gaze, tilts her hips up so Gideon’s hands (fever-hot on Dulcinea’s waist) can slide the dress over her hips. Dulcinea’s tongue presses against the back of her teeth, lazy and anticipatory.

“So you _are_ a natural redhead, Gideon,” she says, teasing. Gideon snorts, and there’s that smirk, cocky and not a little smug. Gideon pulls the dress off Dulcinea, then her silken slippers, leaving nothing but a pair of lacy knickers. Gideon’s hands settle on Dulcinea’s hips, fingers curling around the elastic.

“No,” Duclinea says, in her wickedest voice. “You have to _earn_ that.”

Gideon’s eyes glitter with the challenge. She lunges, bracketing Dulcinea’s head with her elbows, and kisses her again, fierce and hungry. Dulcinea brings her hands down, running them across Gideon’s chest, trailing down to the buckle of Gideon’s sword-belt. This, she has practice with; the loop slips out easily, and the belt goes slack just before Dulcinea has the fastener undone and the zip sliding down.

One of Gideon’s hands cups her breast, rougher than she should, but Dulcinea doesn’t mind. She moans into Gideon’s mouth, which only makes Gideon shudder again. She breaks off, gasping, as Dulcinea slips a hand inside her trousers and rubs delicate fingers over the sodden cloth of her underwear.

“Look at you, all excited,” Dulcinea whispers into Gideon’s ear. “I could touch you all year.” Gideon shivers again, and responds by finding Dulcinea’s nipple and rolling it between thumb and forefinger. Dulcinea whimpers, and Gideon drags her mouth down Dulcinea’s neck. Dulcinea’s fingers fiddle for a moment, then she’s past the waistband of Gideon’s underwear, fingers questing through slick hair. She finds Gideon’s clitoris, and Gideon’s answering moan is guttural, almost animal.

“You make the most wonderful noises,” Dulcinea says. She rolls her fingertips over again, and Gideon groans once more, a symphony of need for a single set of ears. Gideon pumps her hips, uselessly, trying to get Dulcinea to touch her again, but Dulcinea’s far more practised at this. She splays her fingers out, teasing Gideon but not touching her where she wants.

“You’ve got to do better than that, handsome.”

Gideon whines, then hisses out a breath. She leans back, the hand that had been on Dulcinea’s chest sliding down to her outer thigh. Gideon lifts Dulcinea’s leg, the warmth making goosebumps erupt under her touch. She slides down, so Dulcinea’s slick fingers slide up her abdomen, leaving a trail. Gideon shimmies out of her trousers and underwear and boots, admirably quickly, but the angle is all wrong for Dulcinea to get a good look. Pity.

Then Gideon’s back, mouth on Dulcinea’s neck again, and Dulcinea decides to take a little pity. After all, Gideon’s a novice; she simply needs to be directed. She slides her come-slick fingers into Gideon’s hair, and gently pushes her down.

“Like this.”

Gideon obeys, without hesitation. Her mouth sketches shapes across Dulcinea’s collarbones, down the curve of her breast, and to her nipple. A pause, as if Gideon doesn’t know what to do now, but then:

“Oh! Yes!”

Gideon’s tongue is a flash of molten heat, then a sudden cold flush as the air rushes back in. Dulcinea makes a noise in the back of her throat as she does it again, then moves to the other breast. This one she tries something new on: Dulcinea gasps on cue as Gideon sucks, curling her fingers and dragging blunt nails across Gideon’s scalp.

Gideon stays there for what seems like a long time, flitting between Dulcinea’s breasts, until the flames at the base of Dulcinea’s stomach are fusion-hot, until she’s nearly lost control of the sounds falling from her lips.

“Yes, like that,” she says, and “Oh, god, Gideon.” Every word spurs Gideon on, praise and response strengthening each other like necromancer and cavalier. She pushes Gideon down again, and Gideon goes, as if all she wants in life is for Dulcinea to direct her. Lips down her stomach, down her abdomen, to her waistband, and Gideon’s fingers are curling greedily about the elastic once more.

Gideon looks up, her eyes yellow and molten and desperate. Dulcinea meets her gaze through her lashes.

“You want to taste me?” Dulcinea breathes. Gideon swallows, nods. Her breath’s coming in ragged rushes, blowing cold-hot across the trail her mouth’s left on Dulcinea’s skin, brushing damp cloth against Dulcinea’s centre.

“You want me to tell you what to do, Gideon?” she says, and Gideon nods again, jerky. God, the rush of this; she takes a moment to think of how she could break Gideon Nav, with gentle words and gentler touches. How easy it would be to turn this eager, gallant girl into someone who would beg to burn worlds for her, and who would kneel in the ashes to be mounted and praised.

She thinks Gideon might already be part of the way there.

“Take those off, please.”

She expected Gideon to do it fast, but apparently Gideon’s less incoherent with lust than she thought. Gideon doesn’t break eye contact, lifting the elastic just enough that she can catch it between her teeth. The knickers drag down, and Duclinea’s giggle at the sight collides with her gasp at the rush of cool air against hypersensitive flesh. Gideon manoeuvres her legs so the knickers slide off, and now they’re both naked against the sunset.

She remembers, for a moment, the Seventh, as it existed in her girlhood; how there was a mountaintop boudoir, where the sunset would ignite the clouds in green and gold and veins of violet. It’d been considered auspicious to consummate a new relationship as the day died, new commitment fuelled by the death of light.

Maybe that had simply been an excuse to have romantic romps in the twilight. As Gideon pauses between her thighs, haloed by bloody light, Duclinea can’t bring herself to care much which one it was.

“Touch me,” she commands. “With your tongue.”

Gideon does, wide and long, and Dulcinea croons.

“Like that – oh, like that!”

Gideon’s hands are gentle at her thighs, and Dulcinea’s hands are fisted in the short tangle of Gideon’s hair. She arches up, back leaving the sweat-soaked sheets, as Gideon sets to work. Lips, tongue, the stubble tickle of the buzzed sides of Gideon’s head on the inside of her thighs. Dulcinea moans at all of it, and speaks, as Gideon’s confidence grows:

“Oh, yes, Gideon. Like that, just like that.”

Gideon rumbles a moan, open-mouthed against Dulcinea, and the vibration makes her squeak.

“Oh, you’re so good, Gideon.”

The roar of the sea and the hydraulic hammer of her pulse and the wet noises of Gideon’s mouth against her sex and her own half-formed praise blur together, and even a Lyctor cannot quite keep herself all together. Down in the basement of Canaan House, Protesilaus falters, staggers, falls face-first on the floor; elsewhere, a clattering gristle-knot of bone and vertebrae and cartilage explodes like a grenade, peppering a dark metal corridor with shrapnel.

“Gideon, Gideon, right there, oh, keep going!”

Gideon does, nose pressed against Dulcinea’s curls; her tongue flicks out, and Dulcinea moans again.

“Please, Gideon, _Gideon_ , don’t stop.”

The tension is unbearable; Dulcinea needs release. She tugs at Gideon’s hair, but Gideon doesn’t budge. She tugs again, harder, and Gideon whines in sudden discomfort. Were things different, Dulcinea would like to see how much she could do to Gideon before she screamed, but she needs to come _now_.

“Up, Gideon, please, you’re doing so well. Just there, don’t stop – oh. Oh, yes, _yes_!”

Dulcinea comes, nails digging in to Gideon’s scalp, thighs tight around Gideon’s head, back arched, riding the cavalier of the Ninth until her arms go limp and her legs stop responding to her brain. Gideon, for her part, doesn’t stop; she keeps her tongue on Dulcinea until Dulcinea’s fingers relax and she collapses back to the sheets.

Dulcinea stares at the gilded wreck of the ceiling, gaze blurry. She can feel her lungs protesting, knows the blood coughs are coming, but delaying that for just a little longer is not a problem, not on this world. Her chest heaves, and she realises one of her heels aches from beating against Gideon’s back. She wonders if she’s left a bruise to mark Gideon as hers. She hopes so.

Gideon crawls up the bed, panting like she’s run a mile. Dulcinea runs her hands down Gideon’s back, down those gorgeous muscles, until they come to rest on Gideon’s backside. Gideon’s taut as a drumskin, quivering just a little with unreleased desire. Gideon’s face is slick with Dulcinea’s come, her hair’s clumped with sweat and sex, and Dulcinea could get used to seeing her like this.

“You did so well, Gideon,” she says, and Gideon makes a small, whining noise. Her hips roll forward. Dulcinea is, she has to admit, astonished that the vow of silence has held through all this; perhaps she’ll have to push it further to see where it breaks.

She squeezes Gideon’s behind, and says:

“Do you think you’ve earned a reward?”

Gideon’s _hnngh_ is reedy and desperate.

Dulcinea slips a hand around, finds Gideon’s clitoris. She rubs, gently, and Gideon moans, shudders. Gideon’s braced on her elbows, and her fists are clenched in the sheets.

“Look at me, Gideon,” Dulcinea commands, and Gideon does. “Keep looking at me.” Her pupils are so wide her eyes are almost more black than yellow. Dulcinea locks her gaze.

“You’re so strong,” she whispers, and touches Gideon again. Gideon’s mouth falls open, the moan guttural. Her other hand comes up to Gideon’s face, to cup her cheek. “You deserve this.” Another slow swipe, and Gideon makes a noise that’s almost a sob. “”You’re so good, Gideon, my sweet girl. Come for me, Gideon.”

She slides her hand down, and the angle’s a little awkward, but the heel of her palm hits Gideon’s clitoris and her fingers brush into Gideon, and Gideon cries out – not loud, but long, and she keeps her eyes open and on Dulcinea’s, like she’s been told. Dulcinea watches them go hazy, watches the pupils dilate, watches Gideon’s face screw up as she comes for Dulcinea. She doesn’t collapse; she keeps herself under taut control, biceps rigid to either side of Dulcinea’s head.

When it’s done, Gideon slumps to the side, artfully rolling off Dulcinea and staring at the ceiling. Her eyes slide across to Dulcinea, and she lets out a shaky breath when she sees Dulcinea licking her fingers clean.

They lay in silence for long moments, as their pulses return to normal, as the sea wind stirs the curtains and raises gooseflesh up their legs. It doesn’t bother Dulcinea; it doesn’t seem to bother Gideon either.

“Wow,” Dulcinea breathes, and it’s only half an affectation. She’s not lain with anybody in nearly a century, and for all her inexperience Gideon is enthusiastic and biddable and already on the road to becoming a heartbreaker.

If, that is, Dulcinea doesn’t break her first.

She reaches across to the bedside table, and grabs another wash-wipe.

“Let me clean you off,” she says, and Gideon sits still for her as Dulcinea cleans her face yet again.

“There,” Dulcinea says when she’s done. “Good as new.”

Gideon snorts at that, and Dulcinea shares the giggle. She slips an arm under Gideon and rolls towards her, pressing close against her side. Gideon wraps her own arm around Dulcinea, like it’s the most natural thing in the universe, and nuzzles Dulcinea’ hair.

It’s sweet, but it needs to be broken.

“Gideon,” Dulcinea whispers, walking her fingers up Gideon’s chest. “My girl. My gallant cavalier.”

Gideon tenses.

She’s just remembered.

She’s just remembered that she isn’t supposed to be _Dulcinea’s_ cavalier at all.

Dulcinea moves in for another kiss, but Gideon slips away. The panic in Gideon’s eyes meets the confusion in Dulcinea’s, and Gideon swallows. Dulcinea can feel her heart hammering once more, beneath her ribcage.

Gideon still doesn’t speak, she just lets out a long breath and starts getting up.

“Gideon!”

Gideon’s already hunting for trousers and shirt – she doesn’t bother with the underwear – throwing them on as fast as she can.

“Gideon, wait!”

It’s not one of Dulcinea’s best performances, but the audience is hardly in any state to be critical. Gideon scrabbles her belt on, then dashes for her rapier and cloak.

“Gideon, please!”

Gideon’s at the door, and looks back. Her face, bare of paint, is easily read: anguish, guilt, confusion. Dulcinea thinks Gideon’s feelings for Nonagesimus must be deeper than she herself realises. Dulcinea’s naked on the bed, exposed to the air, and Gideon’s jaw is clenched with indecision.

“Don’t go,” Dulcinea says, in a small, lonely voice.

Gideon starts back, just a half-step, then stops. Her hand falls to the pommel of her rapier, and she glances down at the black steel. The sword of the Ninth, in the den of the Seventh.

Gideon looks at her, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

She mouths: _I’m sorry_.

The door swings shut behind Gideon, but not before Dulcinea lets the coughing fit overwhelm her. There’s blood, as there almost always is, and she doesn’t bother to save the sheets; she’ll need new ones anyway. She doubles over, curling the thanergy back in, focussing on the pain. She gets Protesilaus back up, slithers the construct’s bone tendrils back into place. Her mouth tastes of blood, and of Gideon.

Like opportunity.

She knows what Gideon is, even if Gideon herself doesn’t. She knows how to twist then knife between the Cavalier and the Necromancer of the Ninth. She knows Gideon will come back, guilt-ridden, confused – and, if Nonagesimus is given the right push, angry.

Gideon Nav is almost hers.

All she needs to do is wait.

The Lyctor of the Seventh house rides out the fit, then pushes herself off the bed. Her sword is here somewhere, as are her work clothes.

She has hunting to do.


End file.
